Reb Nachman of Bratislav, the 18th century sage, wrote:

כל העולם כולו גשר צר מאוד והעיקר לא לפחד כלל

Kol ha’olam kulo gesher tsar m’od v’ha-ikar lo l’pakhad k’lal

The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge and the important thing is to not be afraid.

This narrow bridge, this gesher tsar, that I traverse is not about reaching the other side. There is no destination. Rather it is a span that separates, that distinguishes. It is a membrane. Between love and suffering. Between cleaving and releasing. Between knowing and the unknowable. Between the sacred and the profane.

There’s an unsent text on my phone.

These were the final words that David wrote. Almost as a postscript tagged to the end of his suicide note. Before composing the suicide note, it would seem that he composed a text, and did not hit send. And he is the only one who ever would know what it said.

This decision, this conscious choice, to compose a text, and not send it, and then notify me in the suicide note, holds significance. Something to be read by me. My eyes only. Not included in the note. Yet not to be “received” prior to our discovery of his body.

My imagination and inner amateur sleuth asks, “why?” on the way to the question of “what?”

Why not write a separate letter to me on paper, secreted somewhere that he knew I would find it, knowing I would be able to discover it. Why did he take for granted the reliability of our devices, of technology, of the ether. And why not send it? One stroke of the thumb. It was deliberate. He made the decision. He states it. What more did he have to say? What private message that was not to be included in the more public handwritten note?

So began the hunt, and the haunt. Searching for the “what.” Detective G was the first to have discovered and read the note. Because of the reference to an “unsent text,” police protocol required that they remove David’s phone and iPad in order to search for this text. If he had written, “The laundry is in the dryer,” would they have gone to the basement to check? I always wonder what they were looking for and why. A few days later I met Detective G at the downtown station to retrieve the devices. They hadn’t been able to locate anything.

I, too, tried to locate this unsent text. I looked through all the apps: Text. WhatsApp. Draft email. Notes. Memos. Lists. Reminders. Google docs. Facebook DM. I exhausted all the possibilities I knew of. All to no avail.

There was no text ever found on any devices.

As the second year passed, and the gnawing of unanswered and unanswerable questions persisted, I even consulted a forensic digital private investigator. Perhaps, I wondered, there is a means to retrieve the keystrokes? Or is it possible, I queried further, that something was automatically backed up to the cloud? There might be some method to look through all the data of the phone. However exorbitant fees and likely zero chance of success put this inquiry to rest.

Indeed, there is no record of any unsent text except in the postscript of a dead man.

The important thing—ha-ikar—these last words, or next to last, take on greater significance because they cannot be read. They are the most elusive—slipping through my fingers before I could know them. I will never know for certain. But the invisible, the intangible, the important, these paramount words of the text. I can only imagine and dream.

I see David’s thumbs on the phone keyboard, those thumbs that wielded knives in a life of food service, and those thumbs that inserted catheters and breathing tubes in a life of nursing care, and changed diapers and clung to children’s hands, and grasped paintbrushes and manipulated wire and twine and plaster sculpting materials, and those thumbs that clutched a pen for the last time, and emptied a bottle or multiple bottles, how many bottles of pills. Those thumbs created one last missive.

And we are without him. And we are without those words. The text is everything and holds everything and yet is unknowable.

Much as the divine. As the name of God. We can not pronounce it. But still we recognize it, and we sanctify that name in the acts that we do. Our acts are sacred.

All that is left is space. And silence. Sacred space. And sacred silence.

Of the lingering pains, and ongoing questions, the unsent text is one that continues to sear my flesh.

Perhaps I have not truly exhausted all possibilities and resources. I keep David’s phone in a safe place and for the most part untouched. Maybe someday they will invent a technology to recover those key strokes. And I don’t want to have polluted the record with too much usage.

And like when you are looking for something in the bottom of your black book bag or purse. You look ninety-nine times and can’t find it. And then weeks later, on the one hundredth time—Aha! Hineini. Here I am. There is that key or pen or coin or token or lost earring. So, too, I imagine one day I will charge that phone again and—Hineini —the text will appear.

There is a common sentiment expressed to the grieving: You will get through this. I find no comfort in that. Indeed, I have no desire to get through anything. This is the place that I am. I peer to one side of this gesher tsar, this bridge that is oh, so narrow. I graze with my fingertips this hopelessness and eternal frustration. This struggle to accept the searing feeling of the unknowable. This untouchable thing that is too hard to let go of and keeps me suspended—reaching toward and away at the same time.

And to the other side, a flickering firmament burns, and I know it has been near, and I am certain, too, that in my proximity to the unknowable, I have almost touched the sacred.

V’ha-ikar lo l’pakhad k’lal. And the important thing is to not be afraid.

-Joy E. Krinsky

Joy E. Krinsky began writing in the summer of 2019, with the obituary, and later eulogy, for her husband. Since that time, she has studied healing through writing, and is currently working on a memoir, Every Little Thing. Her memoir is described here: Following the suicide of her husband, Joy E. Krinsky embarks on a journey of self exploration and discovery. Grief is now a kaleidoscope lens through which she experiences the world. Room by room, season by season, family relations, the everyday items that make a life that has been abruptly shaken up and shifted. Through this collection of essays, she invites us on this journey, recovering the past, creating the future, and discovering the richness of the present. Joy E. Krinsky lives in Portland, Maine.